


Parlour Games

by Sara Generis (kanadka)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Espionage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Hoisted by his Own Petard, International Relations, M/M, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 10:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5124269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanadka/pseuds/Sara%20Generis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the second world war, Russia's boss makes him collect as much information as possible about his enemy, and what he is doing with his little brother's uranium mines. By <i>any</i> means necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parlour Games

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 [RusCan Christmas exchange on tumblr](http://arcticlandbridge.tumblr.com/post/71771039252/parlour-games). Few historical notes: The fic takes place just after Yalta in 1945 (as mentioned by Lithuania).

It’s a good plan. Russia knows this.

He’s identified his target - and that took some effort, difficult enough to spot America’s annoying little brother; that slippery bastard manages a neat trick of disappearing at the strangest of times - and the idea is straightforward. It’s worked for centuries, and it works still.

So long as men have desire, it’ll work. So long as nations such as they are (at least biologically) male, it’ll work.

As to whether Canada will take the bait, Russia doesn’t particularly worry about that either. Russia is no master, like France is; this, he knows.

But he’s got his ways… his charms, his pretty eyes, a certain sultriness he can play up, so he’s certain that Canada won’t notice his other flaws like his nose or his untameable hair or his obvious nervousness.

Or, perhaps worst of all, his boss’ shadow and remnants thereof, lurking around him. This smells rank of a plot, and Russia must ensure Canada is thoroughly ensnared for him to be thrown off such a scent.

_Sleep with him and you can get all of the information you need about America’s involvement with his brother’s uranium mines_  - and wouldn’t that strike the pocket nicely! -  _you know he’s hiding something_  - he must be, he keeps disappearing on everybody, and after all his great battles in the war, that’s telling, isn’t it? -  _no one will notice him_  - they don’t on a regular basis, do they? Then they won’t notice if he takes a lover?

Yes, it’s a great plan, Russia just wishes his boss weren’t so free with whoring him out to his capitalist pig rival’s little brother.

–

“Canada!” Russia calls, after a meeting. “Please, I have an item to discuss with you.” He gives Canada one of his prettiest smiles.

Canada does not appear convinced. “Anything worth discussing was on the agenda of today’s meeting,” he says icily. “And that meeting has adjourned.”

“Ah, yes, that is so, but …” And as Canada turns away, Russia grabs him by the arm at the elbow. “Please, don’t leave -”

Russia has hardly lain a hand on him before America is there. “You got something to discuss with my bro, you got something to discuss with  _me_ ,” America says, his chest puffed out.

Reluctantly, Russia lets go of Canada. “I have nothing to discuss with  _you_ ,” he sneers.

As he walks off he overhears America asking his brother whether he’s okay, and his brother answering in the affirmative, but wondering aloud why he needs a bodyguard.

Ah! A weakness. Russia gleams silently to himself all the way back home where his other Republics see his face and begin to worry.

–

“Lithuania,” asks Russia.

Lithuania jumps a mile and drops his pen with such force that it clatters on the ground and rolls under his desk out of sight. “I thought we had discussed the prospect of  _knocking_  before entering offices!” he gasps.

“Oh yes.” Russia waves his hand disdainfully. “That. Not important, I had to discuss immediately, you understand, yes? Yes! Now - would you mind so very greatly…” Lithuania pales. “…booking me an appointment with Mister Canada?”

Lithuania relaxes, but appears puzzled. “Mister  _who_ , exactly?”

Russia points to the relevant area on the globe upon Lithuania’s desk.

“I have no idea who that is,” Lithuania says. “Have I met him?”

“Come! You are a better secretary than that, are you not?” He tries a smile. “My boss is not so kind to people who are too smart, but he is also not so kind to people who are not smart enough, do you understand?”

Lithuania pales further, if that is even possible, and gulps. “O-of course,” he says. “I’ll set it up right away.”

“He’s America’s brother, if that helps.” It appears to dawn understanding in Lithuania’s eyes and he nods grimly. “Don’t be so sad, Lithuania!” says Russia. “I thought you liked America, didn’t you?”

“Yalta was  _just last month_ ,” Lithuania says tersely. “It’s a little raw between us right now.”

Russia doesn’t understand the reference, so it mustn’t be important. But Lithuania seems angry and friends shouldn’t be angry with each other. “You spent all that time with him. One doesn’t spend so much time with people one doesn’t like. That's how I know that you must like me! You spend so much time with me, after all.”

“Yes,” Lithuania replies flatly.

“Then…?” Russia smiles.

Lithuania purses his lips and says, “Very well.”

–

The meeting is set up, but it’s not soon enough for Russia’s liking. A whole month before he can begin his plan? This is ridiculous!

By the end of the month he has nearly forgotten about his lunch date and has to be reminded by Lithuania both of the date and who Canada is. But so too has Canada almost entirely forgotten about his cold demeanour at the last meeting, which works in his favour. It is lucky for Russia he has such an excellent secretary!

The wine flows with a headstrong river’s current and though Canada is not entirely friendly throughout the entire meal, the more Russia refills his glass, the more calm he becomes. At the end of it, however, Canada says with a faint blush that he cannot accept Russia’s payment of the meal, even if it was Russia’s invitation (and thereby implied heavily that it was his treat), because that could be interpreted as a gift. His eyes dart over to the side, so quick as to seem like an involuntary muscle twitch.

Russia follows his gaze covertly…

…to spot the very tip of a blond cowlick, poking up from behind a nearby shrub.

Canada has heretofore pretended not to notice, but Russia takes this opportunity to tut disapprovingly. “It is a great shame,” Russia says. “I believe you and I could be close friends, if it were not for interferers.”

“Yes, well,” Canada stammers, “you’ve, uh, got to remember the times, eh? Things’re getting a bit intense.  _You’re_  getting a bit intense.” He clears his throat. “No, we said we wouldn’t discuss politics. This isn’t business. I won’t do business with you alone.”

“But I thought you were independent? Don’t you make your own policies? Or must everything you do be double-checked by your brother?” Russia shrugs and smiles to himself. “I guess it can’t be helped, some of us need watching more than others…”

“Hey now,” Canada retorts. “For your information, he’s here on my account, and he’ll leave if I tell him to!”

“Oh, will he now? I am not the only one who is intense. I wonder when the time shall come that his insistence on the monitoring of people such as yourself, whom he claims to trust fully and completely, begins to strike you less as exuberant and more cumbersome, or if you are merely used to being in his shadows.”

“Excuse  _me_  but -”

“It has been a lovely meal, Canada,” says Russia, placing his napkin from his lap back on the table atop his utensils. “I beg pardon, Canada  _and_  his chaperone.” Canada gapes, indignant. “Perhaps next time we speak you may even share thoughts of your very own.”

He pushes his chair out, gets up, and leaves.

This is part of the plan, part of the game, and with triumph he contains his utter joy, muting it to at most a grin when who should catch up with him but Canada, sputtering, “I’ll have you know, I’m my own country and -”

Russia places a warm hand on the small of his back and murmurs sensually, “Walk with me a little, yes?”

He sees it clearly in Canada’s eyes, in the flush that kisses his high cheekbones, in the way Canada stiffens at his touch: the other is baited, and  _well_.

–

He approaches Canada after the next meeting with a much warmer reception. “We may walk a bit?” he asks. Canada gives him a bright smile and a nod.

“ _Canada_ ,” hisses America. “What did I  _tell you?_  Remember, you can’t trust him -”

“It’s just a walk! Don’t get all torqued out of shape.” And if Canada - the classic competitive little brother - walks a little more closer to Russia, pressing into his side as they stride off to the small parkade outside the conference hall, Russia pretends not to notice.

He could almost kiss that capitalist pig. America must not realise that this sort of behaviour will serve only to play into his enemy’s hand! Russia can practically taste the state secrets already.

But first he tastes Canada himself, acting the part of a gentle suitor (if a bit starcrossed), in the park under an oak tree with a low-hanging canopy, capturing his lips, interrupting Canada saying something or another - it’s not important what he says, because Russia isn’t really listening.

Canada freezes, but Russia takes the opportunity to press closer and deeper, their lips enmeshed and fitting together snugly. For all his relative inexperience in the bedroom - he’ll never be France (no one but France will ever be France!) - Russia is well-aware he’s a good kisser, and he holds back no parts of his talents in this domain until Canada has fallen into him, his centre of gravity entirely off-balance, held upright by the sole support of Russia’s arms, and just as Russia himself begins to fall under the spell -

\- he retreats.

That’s enough for now.

Canada’s astonishment has him stumbling over his words. “I - um, I didn’t - I didn’t realise you wanted, uh …”

“Didn’t you truly?” Russia asks. “I tried to be clear.”

Canada thinks it over. “No, you’re right, you were,” he says.

“Then?” He places his hand on Canada’s cheek and with his thumb traces idly the curve of Canada’s lower lip, slowly, pressing it aside, pushing in.

Canada takes his hand off his face and leans up on tiptoes to kiss his mouth.

Russia smiles. This could not work more perfectly, and the soundtrack to their excursion - a not-so-quiet, “Ugh, Canada, bro, that’s  _gross_ ” off to the side - only makes it better, because Canada hears it too and wraps his arms around Russia’s waist.

–

It’s all too easy to coax his way into Canada’s mouth, to persuade Canada’s initiative in engaging in kisses - very quickly Canada is addicted to them, as though attention-starved, although after their first kiss (deemed too public) he becomes good about keeping these things behind closed doors.

So far, America is the only one who knows, and America hasn’t told anybody. Probably because America is a bit ashamed of it. America’s said as much essentially. He doesn’t dare take Russia aside - that’s an outright provocation in times like these - but he makes his little comments here and there.  _Commie creep, it's disgusting how they carry on_.

Evidently, America doesn’t want the world to know his brother’s dirty little secret. Neither does Canada, for that matter. Russia pretends like secrecy is needed from his side as well, although this entire charade has been orchestrated by his officers and chairmen and it is not a secret at all. But a solidarity forged through forbidden love appears to appease Canada, relax him, make him more pliant in Russia’s arms, and that makes it a terribly useful tool.

At one point England calls America on his little comments and asks what he’s on about. America flushes bright red and quickly shakes his head. “Nothing! Nothing at all.”

Russia smiles. It  _is_  nothing, to him.

–

Until it’s not.

–

It’s inevitable that these things lead to such a direction - Russia himself knows the intention is to get Canada to sleep with him, how else could he get close enough, because kisses and embraces are lovely and warm but haven’t been enough to grease his way into Canada’s briefcase. And his boss has suspected the same because he keeps making tell-tale comments that have Russia feeling like a whore before he’s even begun sleeping with someone for material goods.

After one of their excursions, he covertly darts his way into Canada’s hotel room, positive that nobody has seen.

Canada seems surprised that it’s Russia who lays back down on the bed. “I thought you’d…” he says, trailing off, his hands gesturing in an attempt to convey the meaning that embarrasses him to utter aloud.

“No,” Russia says simply. “I prefer it this way.”

Yes, this way, he lies back, and it’s Canada upon whom all burden is placed to make this good, to make this pleasurable, which is wiser.

He doesn’t mind lying back and thinking of the motherland. And he has no idea how much experience Canada has but he won’t betray his own lack of skill at this.

So imagine Russia's surprise when the sex is good.

Better than good, it’s _fantastic_.

Russia had come prepared with an arsenal of theatrics. These he abandons completely, because every one of his gasps is painfully real, as Canada thrusts inside him deep, touching him intimately, driving him wild. Canada puts his hands on his chest and slides them smoothly down to caress his hips, lift them up to better angle himself. It takes his breath away. Light-headed, Russia opens his mouth obediently when Canada kisses him and arches up when Canada wraps his soft, warm hand around him, stroking with enough pressure and twist to work him into a frenzy with the efficiency of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

The next time Canada sucks him off hard until he’s begging, pleading,  _fuck me, fuck me fuck me fuck me_  - and other such profane litanies as chanted frenzied by lovers.

“I’ve every intention of it,” Canada promises him, and kisses his inner thigh. He takes him deep and fast, rough enough that the headboard leaves marks on the wall, which is just how Russia likes it.

Canada doesn’t have to try to make him come, but the more times they do this, the better Canada is able to play him like a fine instrument, and soon, every one of their meetings end with him coming into Canada’s palm, around Canada’s dick, hard in his ass.

Russia discusses it with his supervisors later. They shrug, uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, and mutter that if he manages to find some pleasure from his work, it doesn’t matter.

America, too, seem to be aware that their relationship is no longer even remotely platonic, but has said nothing.

–

It continues for over a year, after they’ve had a birthday apiece (Canada's is the first of July, he finds out, opposite the year to his at the very end of December) and celebrated them both with filthy, raucous, earth-shaking sex. Russia has come to the conclusion that Canada is less annoying than he’d thought originally, and far less annoying than his brother. And while Canada still has a nasty tendency to disappear in a crowd, Russia discovers in late autumn that they are so familiar, he can pick Canada out by scent alone. How do you not know such a thing about a person after so many months of their body, pressed against yours, sweaty and tangled?

And at the end of this year, there is no part of either of their bodies left untouched or unkissed.

And the sex which began as hot and dirty has morphed into something horribly deep and unsettling.

Russia flips them over today. “You want to?” Canada offers. “You can, I’m yours.”

“No,” he replies honestly. At first he thought he preferred it so much when he wasn’t the one doing the work that he didn’t mind a passive position, and then he wondered if it was because of his hidden agenda, but he’s come to the conclusion that Canada’s cock feels amazing in his ass and it gets him off even faster than his mouth does. (It’s alright, he reassures himself, to want it so badly up the ass, but just as long as nobody ever finds out. And he can’t tell his boss about it. It’s worrisome enough his boss had that awkward talk with him about how it’s nice that he has been able to find pleasure in business but not to lose sight of one’s ultimate goals.)

He straddles Canada’s groin and directs his cock inside, lowering himself slowly, letting himself feel each passing burning glorious inch.

“No,” he moans, his legs shaking, “I wanted this.”

“I can tell,” Canada says huskily, and wraps one hand around his aching cock, the other gripping his thigh.

Russia slakes himself on Canada in this way, taking his time and his pleasure as he wants, with Canada writhing under him and powerless, his beautiful face contorted with incredible pleasure. He throws his head back and runs his fingertips down Canada’s chest to his waist, feeling like he can direct more in manually, pulling Canada up and drawing him into his body.

His mind a blizzard with the thick haze of desire - he hardly registers himself speaking, “thank you, ah, yes, I - love - ah  _fuck_ , love you, harder!!” - he groans and spills himself all over Canada’s belly, and then continues rocking up and down until Canada comes as well.

“What was that you said?” asks Canada in the afterglow, before Russia has allowed him to leave his throbbing body.

Slowly Russia climbs off him and collapses beside. “Oh, I don’t know,” he lies, “probably nothing.”

Canada doesn’t seem to buy it and, in the evening they’ve been granted together, snuggles up a little closer behind him, pressing a kiss with smiling lips into Russia’s shoulder blade.

–

The worst part is, it’s not even made easy for him. If Canada could only have left his briefcase on the desk, in the open, the papers exposed, but no. He is careful, he is cautious. He keeps it locked and shut tight, and doesn’t bring it to their dalliances.

This time, however, Canada has just come from a meeting with his brother, which led to some particularly explosive sex.

It’s worth noting that Canada is entirely too competitive, but Russia’s not complaining if it makes him come so hard he sees stars.

And the briefcase sits next to them on the armchair, in full view of the bed where Russia fellates his lover, pretending to himself that doing a good job is key to distracting him hard enough that he’ll forget the briefcase is there, and that wanting to pleasure someone you feel deep feelings for has nothing to do with it at all, and that he’s rock hard only because they haven’t seen each other in awhile (a whole  _week_ , that’s a long time, isn’t it?) and not because Canada’s helpless lustful cries have begun to sound like music to his ears.

“Oh fuck, that’s perfect, you’re so good, aah,” Canada groans, one hand in his mouth biting his knuckle, the other burrowed in Russia’s hair, tugging him closer.

Russia moans to let him know he’s always listening.

Canada takes him from the front this time, with Russia on his back on the bed, his legs in the air, one around Canada’s waist and the other propped up on his shoulder. He can’t spread his legs wide enough apart like this, he wishes Canada could just split him in two with that beautiful hard cock of his, make him pay, punish him, hurt him a little, he deserves it.

Then Canada kisses him soundly, his tongue pressing hard and wet against Russia’s and tangling together with his, stroking past his lips, and Russia comes to find that he’s in too deep and there is far too much intimacy here for him to just take the briefcase and leave -

\- but he has to do it anyway.

He has to do it because it’s his job. Because Canada may be nice (and beautiful and lovely and handsome and kind and generous and  _his words fail him utterly_ ) but his brother is a money-loving pig and his way of life will drive this world into ruin!

(Isn’t that what they say? Isn’t it so?)

He has to do it because that’s what his boss tells him to do!

And he has to do it because when there are no results then his boss gets angry; and when his boss gets angry,  _people get deported!_

When Russia comes, his eyes are scrunched shut, too tight to weep, and his grasp on Canada’s upper arms is hard enough to bruise, as he screams into Canada’s mouth.

“That was amazing,” Canada pants. “Thank you.” He kisses the side of Russia’s neck, just below his ear, with a slow warm fondness that makes Russia’s skin crawl in more ways than one.

“I try,” Russia replies modestly, toying with the curls at Canada’s nape.

In a moment, Canada leaves to use the washroom, and when Russia hears the shower run, he knows now is his only chance.

He takes it.

He wipes himself off only enough for decency’s sake, since he doubts there will be any more dates after today and has a bizarre wish to keep as much of Canada’s presence on his body as he can. Then he dresses and finds the briefcase.

It’s locked.

He contemplates taking the whole thing, but knows his own briefcases are bugged to self-destruct if tampered with and supposes Canada’s might be similar.

The lock is a four-digit combination lock. Russia considers picking it, then considers holding an ear to the lock housing while he turns the dials.

But either will take too long!

The water stops. He has at most a minute…

Think!

Russia tries 1867, he tries 1812, he tries even 1763. None of them work.

If not a year, then what?

Perhaps a month and day?

He enters 0107. Canada’s birthday, isn’t that what he said?

Nothing.

0701, perhaps? Sometimes he uses that strange system…month, then day.

No, incorrect.

What else could it be…

In the bathroom, Canada finishes brushing his teeth.

Russia’s stomach fills with dread.

But what if…

His own birthday. Which he celebrated with Canada last year. When, as he lay drifting into unconsciousness in Canada's arms, he heard him whisper how he felt, how Canada loved him, how grateful Canada was for all of this, how wonderful it was to have a lover, and Russia had pretended to be asleep but Canada had kissed his cheek and would have felt the way it burned on his lips...

He enters 1230.

_Click_ , and the briefcase pops open.

He could  _cry_.

Russia snatches the entire contents of the briefcase and races out of the hotel room.

–

His boss is pleased. “You did well,” he pronounces. “I admit, sometimes, I have my doubts. But this is good!”

“To have more, we must produce more,” Russia says tonelessly, “to produce more, we must know more.”

His boss smiles like a proud father.

–

He avoids making eye contact with Canada the entire way through the next meeting, pretending that to look anywhere else is vastly more interesting, pretending that he doesn’t even see Canada, pretending that his scent doesn’t waft pleasantly over to him every time Canada shifts or runs a hand through his hair, making Russia's knees weak and his groin tight. Ah, there’s nothing so intoxicating as the one that you can’t have, and in his peripheral vision, Canada is a beautiful creature.

A beautiful, infuriated, wrathful creature, who stares Russia down with the evillest of eyes.

So, Canada has most certainly put it together, then.

Incidentally, so has America, who is so happy he’s  _gleaming_.

Russia is first out of the room the second the meeting adjourns, but after he has reached the sanctity of the lift and before it arrives, Canada catches up with him and shouts, “Haven’t you got anything to say for yourself?”

He’s tempted to keep walking…

“I know you can hear me, you asshole.”

Russia turns partially. He explains, “I did what I had to. Nothing more. You fell for it. Oldest trick in the book.”

“Is that so,” Canada hisses bitterly. “You know, I really hate it when he’s right.”

The elevator doors open and he is ashamed to admit he flees into their safety like a dog, his tail between his legs, to avoid any more confrontation.

A heart like his can only take so much.


End file.
